Then he was out and running towards the trees; could hear the rustle of the leaves, see the branches reaching out for him frantically, urging him inside. But then there were figures ahead of him, and the unmistakeable sound of rifles cocking.
‘Halt!’
His heart heaved, and all his breath seemed to collapse inside him.
No.
The Germans behind him had clambered out of the trench now, too. There was no way out, unless he wanted to die. Which – and not without an element of surprise – he found that he did not.
The dog snapped at his heels. A bloody Dachshund, he thought. The Germans stood around him, their rifles, bayonets fixed, trained on him. They seemed uneasy, unable to believe their good fortune – which made the bile rise even further up in his throat. Where in God’s name had they come from?
For a long time no one said anything. Then one of the Germans nudged his comrade, who spoke up:
‘Fallen lassen!’ He gestured towards Robert’s revolver. Robert let it fall on its string. The German came forward and nervously retrieved it, his eyes not leaving Robert’s face. From the man’s uniform Robert could just about make out that he was a corporal. He felt around Robert’s torso and removed his knife.
‘Der ist Hauptmann! Guckt mal,’ whispered another excitedly, discovering Robert’s rank. The man sniggered. ‘Like a rabbit in a trap,’ he said in German.
‘Hӓnde hoch!’ ordered the corporal now, emboldened.
Robert’s head swam with disbelief and shame. Capture was the ultimate disgrace. It counted along with shooting yourself in the leg and desertion. He wasn’t a junior subaltern any more, he was a captain, with plenty of experience. Now he was in the bag. How had this happened? To be taken prisoner in a firefight, in pitched battle, overwhelmed by the enemy, that one could accept. But captured like this, on an evening stroll through the French countryside?
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not putting up my hands for you, you little Fritz bastard.’ Not after all he had been through – Loos, the Somme. They’d probably kill him anyway. He would surrender to an officer if it came to that, but he was damned if he’d surrender to an enlisted man.
This didn’t go down well with his captors.
‘Hӓnde hoch!’ the corporal yelled even louder.
‘Go to hell,’ Robert said. One of them hit him in the back of the legs and he fell forwards onto his knees.
‘Zoovenir!’ demanded the corporal now, brandishing the butcher’s blade on the end of his Mauser rifle. ‘Zoovenir!’
Of course, that was how it worked. Any man, German or British, taking another man prisoner took souvenirs – to the victor the spoils. The corporal nodded towards Robert’s wristwatch. He undid it and tossed it over. The corporal gestured again, and Robert took out his wallet and threw that over as well.
He was trying to stay composed, but his mind was in turmoil. How was this happening? How were the Germans here? Not two hundred feet ahead, as HQ’s information had it, but right on top of them? Possibly even behind them. How had the intelligence been so wrong? He should have been more circumspect. Had he learned nothing? How could he have been so stupid?
And all his men were waiting for him back at the camp, with no idea there were Germans all around. Balan would realise that something was up, would be on the alert, send out a patrol. Robert sent a fervent appeal to God that his stupidity wouldn’t get anyone else hurt. In all his wildest dreams he had never imagined that this was how his war would end. Dead, permanently blinded, mutilated, yes. But a prisoner of the Kaiser? Shame overwhelmed him. He felt like a coward; he had let down his men and his country.
The corporal discovered Robert’s compass, then began to rifle through his wallet, throwing the photographs of his parents onto the ground and pocketing the money. Another soldier snatched off Robert’s cap and threw it to his friend, who took off his own Stahlhelm and put the cap on at a jaunty angle, to the amusement of his comrades in arms. Robert felt bold hands around his neck, trying to prise off his greatcoat, fingers sliding under his collar. Incensed, he leapt up, grabbed the man’s rifle by the barrel and jammed the butt full force into his ribs. The German grunted in pain and bent double.
‘Dreckskerl!’ shrieked the corporal, standing back now and aiming his rifle – ‘Bastard’.
Robert turned and looked him square in the eye.
Louisa, he thought. Louisa, my love.
Then someone bawled furiously from the trees, ordering the corporal to stand down.
‘Gefreiter! Sofort aufhören!’
A German officer emerged. Livid, he ordered the men to put away their weapons. They all stood to attention, the smiles wiped from their faces. The officer snatched back Robert’s cap from the corporal’s head, knocked off the dust and handed it back. Robert nodded his thanks. He saw the man was an Oberleutnant, a first lieutenant, and recognised from his insignia that he belonged to a Prussian regiment. The German officer saluted, clicking his spurred heels smartly together. Robert returned the salute.
‘My apologies,’ said the Oberleutnant in English. Then he added in German, by way of explanation, ‘These men are new conscripts.’
He ordered them to return the rest of Robert’s things, then proffered his cigarette case. Robert took one. In the brief glimmer of light from the match he saw that one side of the man’s face was completely disfigured by a scar.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ the Oberleutnant grinned. ‘I got it at the Somme. The first day. You were there too?’
Robert nodded. The cigarette was rough and strong.
‘Then we are brothers, you and I,’ the German said. ‘A great battle, was it not, Herr Hauptmann? The finest armies in the world, two great civilisations pitted one against the other. Ah, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’
The wind moaned through the trees, and behind them a Very light went up. ‘You’ve fought your last battle, brother,’ the Oberleutnant said. ‘But there will be more, many more. Until we are all ground into dust.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He had to escape. The closer he was to the British lines, the easier it would be. If they took him to Germany… No. He must keep his head. If he allowed desperation to gain the upper hand, he would end up doing something stupid. He must bide his time, keep his wits about him.
Robert was being taken by the Germans, on foot, through the remains of a French village. All at once, someone spat at him. In the drab dawn light, he saw it catch the toe of his boot, polished to a mirror shine by Milligan only the previous evening. Incredulous, disgusted, he stopped walking. Two German corporals lounged against a charred stable. They were badly shaven, and their uniforms were threadbare and dirty. One had the decency to look down at his boots, whose leather upper and soles were coming apart, but the other met Robert’s gaze insolently. His boots, Robert noticed, were stout, standard-issue British ones.